Its 4am and I cannot sleep. The sharp shooting pain through my centre is more a twinge or a fizzle now. My body temperature is off, I’m always hot and irritated, and my anxiety is pathetically following me around, waiting to trip me up and make a fool of me in difficult situations; if I’m not panicking I’m crying.
As I’m crying and trying to steady my breathing I tell myself repeatedly that it’s not me, it’s my stupid hormones, but, it rarely helps. Occasionally the crying is justified, like earlier when I was outside of the posh private hospital waiting on my Uber after receiving the news that I was not going to have the much anticipated MRI scan.
Now as you (may) know my endometriosis has migrated to my umbilicus. On Christmas Day I attended an ultrasound scan where I was told there was a post surgery complication and I required an MRI to investigate. Without too much freaking out I patiently wait for Tuesday the 19th, and arrive 90mins early.
My name is called, I am welcomed in and sit down before repeating some of my traumatic medical history.
- AMH results
- Laser treatment on ovaries to remove endometriosis
- Biopsy (no anaesthetic)
- Endocrine vs Gynae war
- Pain/Insomnia/Mental Health
- Regular CA125 monitoring
- Complete mental breakdown
I’m trying to breathe and give the Dr what she wants. I am alone, I am always alone. She reads through my notes as I try to blink away the tears.
‘Fistula!’ She exclaims loudly. ‘You have a fistula!’ I look blankly across. ‘I cannot treat you here, we are too small. You need expert attention – urgent attention’. Her words meaningless blah blah, she becomes Charlie Browns teacher and I cave inwards. There will be no MRI for me. I leave without answers again.
Outside I cry alone. Just me with an invisible illness that has taken over my life. I know the fistula requires more than just an MRI, it needs cutting out and I’ll need sewing back up and bed rest.
It’s well past 4am now. I’m still crying and I’m scared. This is my life with endometriosis. I need to breathe and remember ‘it’s not me, it’s my stupid hormones’